


The Silver Swan

by OldShrewsburyian



Category: 15th Century CE RPF, Henry V - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works, The Hollow Crown (2012)
Genre: 15th Century, Arranged Marriage, Biblical References, Canonical Character Death, Childbirth, Churches & Cathedrals, Diplomacy, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Face Slapping, Feelings, Historical References, Jewelry, Married Couple, Mild Smut, POV Female Character, POV Third Person, Politics, Swans, Swearing in French, Wakes & Funerals, gratuitous liturgy, why is there no tag for medieval decorative arts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-12-23 01:39:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11979402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldShrewsburyian/pseuds/OldShrewsburyian
Summary: Catherine of Valois knows it is her duty to marry the English king, but she doesn't have to be happy about it. Nor does she have to trust him. Or like him. But being a queen is a complicated business. And being Henry's wife might be more so. Told as a series of Catherine-centric vignettes, 1420-1422.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gentle_herald](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gentle_herald/gifts).



Even in May, the castle is cold. Alice clucks and scolds and goes to fetch a fur-lined houppelande, and Catherine continues to tremble with rage. She has always expected a marriage of state; she has always known that her time would come, to leave her household, to leave the landscapes and language that she knows. But she never expected this humiliation. Even as the youngest of her sisters, she had hoped that her marriage would bring some good to France. But this peace is a mockery, and the English king does not want it or her. 

If she had expected to see him again, she would not have allowed herself to cry. But she had been sure that he would be off as soon as his treaty was signed and sealed, the contract willing her away to him. And now he is striding in unannounced, leaving her to choke down and wipe away her tears as he comes down the long gallery. 

She makes her obeisance slowly, holding his eyes. He matches her, courtly because it costs him nothing. Her eyes are burning. She takes one of the chairs by the hearth, pretending not to see that he has reached to hand her into it. 

“My Catherine,” he says, “I come to make my adieux.” 

“Does it please my lord the king to address me as his?”

He raises his chin abruptly, like a man struck across the face, like a man whose honor is insulted. _Good_ , thinks Catherine.

“Most high and exalted princess,” he resumes, “I wished to…” He pauses, mutters in English, “ _make you a present._ ” 

Catherine waits. She is used to hearing the Duke of Burgundy’s sing-song, the extra syllables of southerners; a half-dozen versions of French are exchanged around the court. And now this, this, this _Englishman_ comes, with his swallowed words and his flat vowels. And he behaves as though the language — like everything else — belongs to him, and he may treat it as he chooses. For now, however, he appears to have admitted defeat. Catherine allows herself a victorious smirk, which fades as she sees what he has pulled out of his sleeve.

It is a box. It is of walnut, beautifully shaped and delicately carved. The king holds it in his upturned palm; she takes it from him carefully, so that she does not brush his hand.

She holds it cupped in her hands and stares at the scene carved on its lid. In the foreground are six vessels, servants pouring wine. The scene is a marriage feast: guests and rich food and bustling servants, anxious bride and solemn bridegroom, all caught on the lid of a box no larger than the breadth of a man's hand.

“Open it,” says the king.

Catherine starts. Such a beautiful thing — and he must have had it made weeks before coming here, to this place and this meeting. So sure he had been that they would give her to him. She opens the box with trembling hands. Within is another ominously beautiful thing. The swan is made of silver; of silver are its raised wings, its arched neck. Its beak and feet are set with rubies. Around its neck is a crown of hammered gold, on the end of a golden chain. Is that how he sees her, as a captive thing? Perhaps she should hiss, to show him she understands.

“The device,” says the king, in his careful French, “was that of my mother. It is that which is worn by those who are bound to me, by ties of loyalty, of friendship… or of love.” He reaches forward, as if he would take it to pin it on her. She shuts the box sharply — missing the long fingers, alas — and he sits back in his chair. She cannot tell whether he is blushing or whether his fair skin has been reddened with sitting close to the fire. 

“Ma très chère,” he begins.

She rises, and he is on his feet an instant behind her. “Je suis et je reste,” says Catherine, “Catherine de Valois.” 

She turns and sweeps regally (she hopes) to the opposite door from that by which he entered. It is only when she is halfway across the room that it occurs to her that Henry of England is one of the few men on earth who is not obligated to rise when she does. And yet he had done so. She does not give him the satisfaction of checking her stride.

“Alice,” says Catherine, later, “comment appelle-t-on le cygne en anglais?”

“Le _swan_ , madame.”


	2. Chapter 2

She wears it on her wedding day. The vast cathedral at Troyes is flooded with light and filled with people; she is weighed down with silk and velvet, pacing to meet the king. He is resplendent, yet more solemn than the bridegroom on her walnut box. 

She has had the swan hung from a chain about her neck like a badge of office, a declaration of power. In the solitude of her chamber she has thought, sometimes, that she will wear it as a gesture of defiance; sometimes, that she will wear it as a challenge to be taken up. Now, standing in the light from the clerestory, she has left such strategies behind. Her heart pounds with fear, so that she is sure that the bishop and her not-yet-husband must see it, for all the layers in which she is clad.

With her hand in Henry’s, they kneel. She wonders if they look absurdly ill-matched to the people in the nave, the long-limbed king and — herself. As the bishop intones the liturgy, she finds herself thinking about worldly vanity. The church is very clear on the subject of consent: it must be freely given, or marriage is invalid. But what of all the machinations of men leading up to this moment? A blind eye is turned to those, it would seem. Or do the churchmen leave it up to the souls of those kneeling before them, whether to perjure themselves or not? Henry makes his responses unhesitating, his voice resonant under the vault, that is spangled like the vault of heaven.

“I will,” says Catherine, and hopes that God will understand. A marriage may be many things. This one is a plea for peace, made to a man who has never shown mercy. Catherine shivers. The king of England, in accordance with ancient custom and his right, kisses her with a gentleness that feels like hypocrisy. 

Married in the eyes of God, she turns to face the acclamations of the people. To her surprise, they seem hearty enough. Maybe those giving them were dazzled by the colors. Maybe they liked the music. Maybe, for them, the bargain seems well-made, and her marriage a small price to pay for a respite from the relentless English. 

“You’re trembling,” says Henry softly, without looking at her.

“Quelle perspicacité!” retorts Catherine tartly. His hand closes around hers, and she wishes she were not comforted by its human warmth. 

They step out onto the church porch, and the shout that greets them is deafening. He turns and, to her surprise, winks at her.

“Let them look,” he says. “They’ve never seen anything to rival you. Neither have I,” he adds, more softly. She holds his gaze, studying him, trying to find the flaw in his assumed sincerity, trying to find where to have him. So she sees the moment that he notices the swan. His lips part slightly, on an inaudible intake of breath. And then he smiles, and the scarred face is irradiated, a change as sudden as their own emergence from the dimness of the nave into the summer sunshine.

“Catherine! You’re wearing the badge.”

“My lord has a talent for stating the obvious.”

His eyes are half-hooded, and something sly comes into his smile. “Does it please my lady the queen to call me her lord?”

“Laissez, Monseigneur,” says Catherine, but she can feel herself blushing.

By the end of the day, she has come to feel that — on this day, at least — the two of them are allies against the world. They are spectacle, to be gazed at and cheered, to be ceaselessly happy and unstintingly gracious. And they are audience, to be generous and complimentary and interested and not in the least tired. She has drunk too much wine, but she is exhausted and cross and nervous enough not to regret it. Time enough for that later. 

Henry catches her eye; even in the torchlight, he looks pale. “Will you precede me, Catherine?”

Wordlessly she nods. Ritually she thanks the assembled company for sharing in her joy — not, she reflects wryly, that more than the few dozen people closest to her heard it, or that anyone was listening to catch her out in a lie. But she has been seen to do it. She is learning the significance of that.

Alice, of course, is waiting for her. It is a physical relief to be divested of headdress and houppelande, to be unpinned and unlaced. Piece by piece and layer by layer, the garments of her queenship are laid aside. But, Catherine reflects, her nakedness is no less important to her new office. More so, perhaps. Tucked into the vast bed, she shivers, and places a hand over the badge, where it hangs between her breasts.

“Leave the swan, Alice," she says.


	3. Chapter 3

In the ensuing months, she is adrift, an uncrowned queen. The silver swan remains in its walnut box. She refuses to mark herself as his. Let the commons gaze their fill, but let it be on her, Catherine de Valois. Catherine de Valois, queen of nowhere, wife of Henry of England. 

Henry, it turns out, has plans for their future. In spite of herself, she finds this endearing. “I thought we might go to Jerusalem,” he says suddenly one night, as if he were saying _I thought we might take a boat out on the river._.

“To Jerusalem?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

He turns over, and sees her dismay. “Oh, Catherine!” He is half-laughing, now, but his eyes are still serious. “Someday. When there are no more wars to settle.” He leans up to kiss her shoulder, a word she cannot pronounce, still, for all Alice’s teaching. “You have married a man with a heavy conscience, Catherine.”

She bites back the reply that no one has better cause to know this than she. She may resent England, and England’s king, but for the strange and surprising man who comes naked to her bed she finds herself nurturing something like tenderness.

“Eh bien,” says Catherine, and runs a hand through her husband’s hair, “you might fulfill the teachings of the church and do your duty to your wife.”

He chuckles, deep in his chest, a sound not unlike the purring of the lion at the Tower, and to her as incongruous.

“Might I?” echoes Henry, and she suspects that he is showing off his comprehension of the French. “Well, I would of course wish to be counted as a good son of the church.” The grin accompanying the words is entirely wicked.

***

She measures out the time to her coronation, in weeks, in months. It seems an unkind twist of fortune that she should be able to mark the passing of time in her own blood, neither a queen nor a mother to kings. She is received at Paris, acclaimed as queen with solemnities carefully equal to those accorded to the king — still not king of France, not until her father dies; but she does not remind him of this. They sojourn together at Rouen, and are entertained by the English merchants at Calais. She wonders if Henry notices them leering at her. 

Her coronation takes place on a cheerless day, long after the winter first began to seem endless. She is escorted from the Tower of London, clad in shining white, radiant against the gray of the city. She stands solitary in the abbey, and receives the crown. She tries not to feel abandoned. She tries not to feel that this is an unwanted burden she has been left, unfairly, to bear alone.

“I wanted you there,” she says to Henry at supper, some weeks later. They are on progress, being seen to do justice, to hear the cries of the poor. She knows their words will be inaudible beyond the dais.

He looks up sharply, his eyes startled. “Catherine?”

“At the Abbey. I wanted you there.” It feels like a bitter confession, now, but she had spoken the truth impulsively, and cannot recant it. She watches him swallow before he speaks.

“Well,” says Henry, “I wanted them to see you as you are: most divine goddess and _très puissante reine_.”

She is trying, not very successfully, to suppress her smile. He can always make her laugh, and he knows it.

“No man’s servant,” says Henry, and suddenly she is as serious as he is. “No man's servant, and no man’s shadow, but a queen.”

She stares at him. He must have a very convenient conscience, if he can believe that of her. But he seems entirely sincere. She is not sure whether to be angry, or to pity him.

“And,” continues Henry, “my lady, my queen, my most beautiful Catherine of the world — you have me now.”

“Ah, vraiment?” She raises their shared goblet to her lips. Having delicately pressed the tablecloth to the corners of her mouth, she slips one hand under its edge, and runs it deliberately up his thigh, hearing his intake of breath. “How do I have you?”

Catherine of Valois smiles. It is be a lonely business, standing to be crowned in a strange land. And God knows, it is a lonely business to queen it over women who can talk behind her back in a foreign tongue. But here and now, she smiles for her subjects, and exults privately in her own power. She is the daughter of the king of France, descended from an anointed line; she is crowned queen of England; and she holds England’s king in the palm of her hand.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> April 1421. Highly recommended for the function of queenship and the role of queens in England in the generations just preceding Catherine is Lisa Benz St. John's _Three medieval queens: queenship and the crown in fourteenth-century England_.

The swans on the riverbank are nesting. She watches them by the hour; there is no one to demand she do otherwise. The king is deep in conference, and she is deep in thought. Her diplomacy is that of the evening, of the hall and the banquet table, of speech and song. It is a diplomacy of light conversations, of compliments, of attentions, of schooled interest, of intercessions and carefully phrased commands. She has seen her mother make a place for herself at conference tables and in audience chambers. But here, in this cold country? She finds she cannot imagine it. At least, not now; perhaps later. Perhaps… 

“They mate for life, you know.”

She looks up to find her brother-in-law. “Ah, Jean. Sit down." He does so; very ready to accommodate themselves, these brothers. “What is mate?”

“Oh!” To her surprise, he blushes. “They pair off. These two, for instance — they won’t just be together for a season. They’ve been here for years now. They’ve… chosen each other, I suppose. Mind you, I don’t know how a swan chooses its mate. But once they have, that’s it.”

“I used to be told not to make too much of the romances we read in the gardens,” says Catherine, not looking at him. “I suppose no one told the swans.” He laughs, a little uncertainly. “What happens if one dies?”

“Legend says the other dies of a broken heart. They mourn, in any case. They make the most unearthly noises…” She only realizes that she has forgotten to guard her face when he breaks off. “Anyway,” says Jean, “We should be seeing the little ones in a few more weeks.”

“That will be nice,” says Catherine, her voice tight. 

“Watching the swans?” asks her husband, some hours later.

Catherine does not stiffen or flinch. Very gently, she removes his hands from her shoulders as she stands up to face him. She smiles. Still smiling, she waves her women away, and they retreat, exchanging indulgent glances. She waits until she and Henry are alone. Then she slaps him.

“Is that how you think of me?” She hisses the words, careful not to be overheard. “Is that what you want me to be?” His face is still slack with shock; she watches the blood rise where she has struck him. 

“A swan. The swan. The silver…” she struggles in vain for a sufficiently insulting adjective… “swan.”

Henry rolls his shoulders back. “Catherine…”

“Va te faire foutre.” She leaves him without a backward glance.

He comes to her anyway — not that night, but the next. She remembers a story he told her, of one of the many kings of England who were not his ancestors. (He had, of course, not mentioned that; nor had she.) One of them was saved from death, as Henry told it, because of loving his wife. A would-be assassin had reached the king’s bedchamber, _but the king by God's grace,_ wrote the chronicler, _was with the queen._ Hearing the story, Catherine had laughed, and, by the queen’s grace, as Henry quipped, he had been preserved that night.

“Catherine,” says Henry of England now; “Catherine.” She cannot bring herself to meet his eyes. She sits tracing with her finger the impossibly complex contours of the scene on the walnut box: the uncertain betrothed, surrounded by the ceaseless, purposeful activity of those around them. 

“John says he was telling you stories about swans.” 

She chokes back a sob that threatens to form itself, or to form itself into laughter. “It has the ridiculous air, I know.”

“No.” His earnestness is painful, sometimes. “No, but… I don’t understand.”

She takes a deep breath, and turns to face him. He is crouched so as not to loom over her — like a man with a nervous horse, she thinks, or a wounded dog. 

“First,” she says, “I beg your pardon. For the… the _gifle_.” An instant his brow is furrowed; then he shakes his head, dismissing the matter. “Now sit down,” says Catherine; “if you would; you’re making me nervous.”

He settles himself at her feet, and her heart turns over. How have they come to this, within a year, this familiarity and this shyness?

“John was saying,” says Catherine, “about the swans. That if one of them dies, the other dies too. Or mourns them with sad songs, or…”

“Catherine,” says Henry, and moves to take her hands in both his, holding them still. “Catherine, sweetheart…”

She interrupts him. “I have not bound my entire existence to you. I could not. I will not. But I have come to love you, and I — I do not want to mourn you.”

She dares to look at him, now, and finds him staring at her, more blankly than after she slapped him. 

“It’s not always like that,” he says, “with the swans.” He is still abstracted; she can see him calculating, even as he speaks. “They — they do mourn, yes, but they find other partners. I’ve seen it happen.”

“Yes?”

“Yes.” He shakes his head at her, bites his underlip as if afraid of smiling too broadly. “Swans!” he exclaims then, laughing, and she is laughing and crying together, and he pulls her down into his arms. “Truly, Catherine?”

“Truly what?” 

“You have come to — to love me. A little, that is; _je veux dire_ …”

“Henry of England,” says Catherine, “come to your queen’s grace.”


	5. Chapter 5

She has Alice fix the silver swan to her gown before going to bid him goodbye. By his command, she will remain in England. They have whispered farewells in the dark, and he has murmured promises into her ear until she she has fallen asleep in his arms. But now the king of England goes to subdue unconquered cities in his France, and the queen must condone his mission.

She does not say _God speed_. She cannot desire that. But she makes her appearance, wearing his badge, and prays with all her heart for his protection. Watching the final preparations for his departure, she is fascinated, as always, by how nearly disorderly such undertakings are. But at length they are marshaled, from dukes to doctors. Very much the king, Henry kisses her formally on the mouth — and then, as if relenting, runs one finger along the line of her jaw before turning and going lightly down the steps, away from her. He mounts easily, and she is reminded uncomfortably that he was a soldier for years before he was king.

Alice has told her that women in her condition are subject to strange forebodings. So she tries to put aside the sense that there is something sinister, something ill-fated, about this return to France. The seasons have marked out many changes. A year after their marriage, she had known herself to be with child. But now, less than half a year after their coming to England, herself the visible pledge of the new-made peace, the king of England is returning to war. Catherine de Valois shivers in the June sunlight.

She wears the swan often, in his absence. It feels again like a defiant declaration, this time to the courtiers who, the king being abroad, vie still more eagerly for influence with the queen. So she smiles, and listens to flattery, and watches the conversations of others, and wears the badge as a proclamation: my loyalties are spoken for, and my lord is a powerful one.

She comes to wear it almost as a talisman. It is a comfortingly constant thing, as even her own body becomes strange to her. She wears it pinned below her heart, drawing together the edges of the houppelande that parts to accommodate her swelling girth. _Let it be a son,_ Catherine prays. Not a daughter, to be married off to some foreign king, to be bartered and bickered over from her earliest youth. Tears sting Catherine’s eyes. Let it not be a daughter, to be taken from her. Let it be a son. Let it be a son, and let him live to be king of France and England. Catherine smiles, imagining her son crowned at Rheims. King of England, yes — the swan proclaims his right to that — but true king of France, anointed with the chrism of St. Remi, which will be his by right of her blood. _Let it be a son._

***

She receives letters from France. Cities are conquered. Men are killed. Catherine knows it would be useless to protest that these Englishmen and Frenchmen will — perhaps in only a few years’ time — be united under the same crown. Now they lie in the fields of France, the autumn’s bloody harvest. She fingers the silver swan, and thinks of her father’s words to the English king: _it will be a strange way of wooing Catherine, covered in the blood of her countrymen._ A strange wooing it had been, indeed, of failed diplomacy and his most intransigent demands. He had professed love and demanded land. And now, God help her, he has both.

By her own desire, she resides at Windsor. The river flows more cleanly here than in London. The air is sweeter. In the castle grounds, there are swans. But the river is sullen under frost when she is brought to bed.

She prays to St. Margaret, and to her own St. Catherine. St. Margaret was delivered from certain death, emerging triumphant from the dragon’s belly. Catherine survived the breaking of her body. She prays to them both, and to the Virgin whose son slipped from her like a blossom from a tree, like dew falling onto grass. Catherine screams, and Alice murmurs endearments. She writhes, and thinks that no pleasure was worth this, and no duty can be. She thinks of her husband, his stern, scarred face now set for war, somewhere in France. Here, helpless, she is besieged and conquered. And then she is not the only one screaming.

“Vous avez un fils,” says Alice, and kisses her temple. The women give thanks to God, and Catherine trembles in all her limbs. They hand her the boy she prayed for, and Catherine looks into a squashed, squalling face and knows that there is nothing more precious on the earth.

“Chut,” she says, laying one finger on the wet, open mouth. “Chut, mon prince, mon fils, mon petit amour.”


	6. Chapter 6

She receives letters from France. She is told, by a scribe’s hand, that the king, receiving messengers telling him of the birth of his son, gave thanks to God most devoutly and with great exultation. She smiles at that — _with great exultation._ All the formulae, of course, piously say that the queen was delivered most joyfully of a son. And all the country devoutly gives thanks. But this great exultation, she thinks, that is truly his, and it is for her.

She celebrates Christmas rejoicing in the birth of the Christ and in that of her infant son. But on the whole, her winter is a quiet one. She keeps court at Windsor, and sings the lullabies that Alice taught her. Observing Candlemas, she gives thanks once again for her safe deliverance. She receives the letters from France. And in spring, she writes a letter of her own. She writes painstakingly — it is a skill she does not have to use often — and the parchment she covers can be folded to fit in the palm of her hand. She tells her husband that she longs to see him, and hopes that he will read the truth, of the desires of her heart and her body.

His reply reaches her sooner than she would have imagined possible. There is much in it concerning the rituals and the practicalities of her departure and arrival. She can come at the head of an army; her parents will be there to meet her. But his own words, as he promised her when they first met, are simple, and their refrain is: _come._

Arriving at Harfleur, she is surprised by the steady thrum of her own expectation. She comes as Catherine de Valois, once a bartered princess, but now queen twice over, wife and mother to kings, leader of an army. She is resplendent, and she knows it. Her cloak depicts the royal arms, and is fastened under the insignia of the silver swan.

Despite everything, she is glad to see her parents. She wonders how much of their presence here is Henry’s doing, enlisting their visible support of his cause against their son’s. But she kisses her mother’s dry cheek, and embraces her father warmly. His watery gaze is wandering, but he smiles at her. When she turns to Henry, it is to find him already — still — mustering her. For the needed reinforcements he has as yet no eyes. His gaze catches on the swan at her throat, and she blushes under it. There is nothing perfunctory about his greeting; his hands are thin and strong, clasping her, and his mouth is warm and eager on hers.

For the sight and touch and taste of him she is greedy. They relearn each other by night, breathless and triumphant. 

“You are thinner than I remembered,” she says. He is laughing up at her, grasping her hips.

“And you are less so,” he retorts. “I find that I have been deprived of more of my queen than I knew. And I must take stock of what is mine.” He pulls her to him, and she forgets to worry. 

They celebrate Pentecost in Paris, and Catherine studies the hollows of her husband’s temples. From Paris they proceed to Senlis. She traces swan’s wings on his body, over familiar scars and unfamiliar bruises, as if the pattern could charm away the fever that will not leave him. The Duke of Burgundy, that great pleader of peace and wager of war, calls for Henry’s aid; they retrace their steps to the castle of Bois-de-Vincennes. There Henry leaves her, and departs for the siege of Compiègne. It is the last time she sees him standing. 

She knows to be afraid when the messenger announces that the king is ill. The news is for the benefit of the household’s preparation; she gives the necessary orders before taking the boy’s sleeve.

“What ails the king?”

“The old illness, saving your grace. We came most of the way by water; he tried to mount at Charenton, but he couldn’t, he couldn’t stay on the horse for pain, so he had to use the horse litter.” The boy is shaking, as well as stammering. She releases him with a gesture, not trusting herself to speak. 

Charenton is insultingly close. This is the thought that beats in her brain while she waits. She could walk there in less than an hour. And Henry’s pride has never been of his body. She cannot think of a reason that the king would choose to ride the last furlongs to the castle, unless to preserve her from worry. She takes the swan from its box, and puts it on as if it is a charm that can defend them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't blame me for the angst, blame Thomas Elmham, Benedictine chronicler. The idea that Henry tried to mount his horse to save others from worry (or, more specifically, to comfort them: _volens in consolacionem videri sanior quam erat_ ) is all his fault. He also, like Henry's other chronicler, emphasizes his emotional response to the news of Henry VI's birth. Elmham's phrase may be rendered as: "with most sweet joy in his innermost heart."


	7. Chapter 7

Following the litter up the stairs, she catches herself wringing her hands. The end is not in doubt; it is etched in the faces of his friends and his physician. Not since the time of their betrothal has she felt more helpless. Exeter seems to have aged years in a span of weeks, as if his vitality were sapped by the same illness that is wasting his nephew’s flesh. 

“Tell Catherine,” begins the king.

“She is here,” says his brother John, whose eyes she cannot bring herself to meet.

Too quickly, she crosses to the bed; the solemn men part for her, and fear beats its pulse in her throat.

“Catherine,” says the king again. His hand trembles with the effort of clasping hers. His eyes are dull with sickness, glazed with pain, and she does not know what he wants from her.

“I love you,” she says, as firmly as she can manage. “I forgive you, and I love you.” She is rewarded; some of the strain departs his face. She carries his hand to her lips.

“Remember the swans, Catherine,” says Henry.

“What?” Despite her best efforts, her vision is blurring with tears. 

“The swans.” She watches him swallow, unable to look away. “Don’t… don’t mourn forever, Catherine.”

“No.” She chokes the word out, unsure whether she means it as assent or protest. The physician lays a hand on her shoulder. She presses a kiss to her husband’s brow in parting; his sweat on her lips is bitter as gall.

It takes him days to die. When delirious, he believes he is fighting with demons. When in his right mind, he tries to preserve his soul in other ways. He gives orders for alms and endowments; he makes his confession, and Catherine tries not to imagine his struggles for breath. He receives the Eucharist each day, and she wonders at his fear and his desire. The monks around his bed chant: _Have pity on me, Lord, for I am weak; heal me, Lord, for my bones are shuddering. My soul too is shuddering greatly._ Catherine listens, and turns the silver swan over and over in her hands.

The Duke of Exeter brings her the news, in the end. She is grateful that, for all his kindness, he knows that this is not something he can protect her from.

“The Duke of Bedford,” he says, “will be the prince’s regent, until he is of age. He has further commanded me, together with others of his trusted friends, to — ” his voice breaks only once — “to surround the prince, and to give him good counsel. Which I will for my part most faithfully seek to accomplish. It is assumed that you will live with the prince,” he adds.

Catherine nods wordlessly, acknowledging this.

“Is there anything,” asks Exeter gently, “that your grace would wish?”

Catherine looks at him. “I want to go home,” she says, and realizes she means England.

***

There are, she learns, elaborate procedures of embalming, designed for the earthly bodies of anointed kings. So she leaves him behind her, and returns alone to England. In the golden sun of September, she and Henry process through the streets of London; they are seen to be present, and to be regal. The people are given this to remember: upon the king’s death, they cheered his son as his legitimate heir. Henry sits quietly on her lap. Only sometimes does he reach up, with an infant’s clumsy insistence, to grasp at the silver swan.

No less detailed than the procession are the arrangements he has made for his burial, and her survival. These are explained to her.

_Item it is agreed that our consort Catherine shall possess and have for dower in the kingdom of England all that which it is customary for a queen to have, to the sum of twenty thousand English nobles. Item we, Henry, king aforesaid, by all ways and means that we may guarantee without any transgression against law or custom, do provide and take pains that our consort Catherine shall enjoy full security of possessing and having, whatever may come to pass, and in our kingdom of England at the time of our death enjoy this said dower._

“This with possessions in France, etcetera,” says the lawyer, and she nearly reaches across the table to strike him. _Etcetera._ Whatever might come to pass: whether or not they had sons; whether or not they had children; whether or not her brother Charles challenged Henry’s possession of the kingdom her marriage was supposed to bring him. 

“You have our good leave to go,” says Catherine to the lawyer. Left alone, she puts her head in her arms and sobs.

The arrangements for his funeral she oversees herself. He is surrounded by four hundred knights on black horses, their lances lowered. She follows the procession a mile behind the chariot bearing his coffin. The four horses draw him into the abbey itself, all the length of the magnificent nave. The coffin is draped in the royal banner, surrounded by his achievements: saddle and helmet, sword and shield. She cannot take her eyes from them, these relics of an unfinished war. Alice holds Henry, and Catherine holds nothing, her hands clasped over emptiness. Gleaming on black velvet, her only ornament is the silver swan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In representing Catherine as having made the funeral arrangements herself, I am following a nineteenth-century antiquarian who clearly read the sources closely, but also appears to have made stuff up when it suited her. The terms of Henry's will are very specific about his burial and the memorials for his soul, but leave the funeral arrangements to the discretion of his executors "to be accomplished in a manner that will conserve the dignity of the realm and avoid the sin of excess."

**Author's Note:**

> Gifted to @gentle_herald because the title was her idea. Tagged for The Hollow Crown because I am fascinated by the idea that Henry falls in love suddenly and to his own not inconsiderable surprise, an interpretation that had not previously occurred to me. I don't think he could stop calculating if he tried, though.


End file.
